


Variations on a Theme

by Sky_kiss



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Azulon orders Ozai to kill Ursa, Because killing Zuko would be insane, Challenges, Divorce, F/M, Friendly Tumblr War, It's a series of different AU's, One Shot Collection, Reincarnation, Torture Ozai 2k18, Tumblr Prompt, Twisty Angst, Unhealthy Relationships, because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-09 04:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14708973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: One thing is constant across one hundred different lives. Ozai will lose his wife, one way or another. Five different times the Phoenix King lost his bride.





	1. Memory Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Karuva and I were trading nightmare ideas with each other over on tumblr and, as any good shipper will do, we decided to have a playful war with each other and write fic to torture Ozai. Apparently this means torturing Ursa a lot. This is the first of the prompts: Memory loss. 
> 
> This chapter (and only this chapter) is a Westworld style AU, and borrows elements from their hosts. Anthony Hopkin's character Ford is included. LET'S DO SOME ANGST. Also sorry this one super weird and out there; the other four AU's are more...grounded.

The room fit the criteria of an “office” by only the wildest stretch of the imagination. Mausoleum seemed more suited, an amalgamation of the past and future. Plaster faces, those of his “children,” Ozai notes, with no small amount of distaste, flank the desk. They stare ahead, sightless, eyeless, beautifully formed if slightly macabre. To the right, there are books. The scent of them, musk and a hint of spice, color the air.

The effect is dizzying and disjointed. The second son of Fire Lord Azulon plucks at the fabric of his slacks, clasping his hands in his lap. The Doctor’s office is cold, blues and blacks and silvers, and the Phoenix has never felt so removed from his element. He purses his lips. His age is difficult to place, perhaps somewhere in his mid twenties. The dark bags rimming his eyes leave him looking older.

Across from him, silent, is the master of this...charade. The prince feels a wash of revulsion. It is tempered by the…necessity of their proposed arrangement. 

Ford is seemingly cut from stone. A wisp of dark hair falls across his forehead. It is out of place, clashes with the perfectly pressed vest, the dress shirt. The man rocks back in his chair, once, twice, as he thumbs through the folder in front of him. He doesn’t speak. The office is silent aside from the hum of machinery, the air conditioning groaning before stirring back to life.

After a long moment, he sets the file aside, face grim. Ford’s eyes are a pale blue, almost ghostly. Waterbender blue, he thinks, although the skin tone is wrong. The older man presses his hands down on the desk, palm first. “You came here desiring me to build you a tomb, a shrine upon which you might immortalize your ghosts.” The older man tips his head to the side, humming, “Why?”

One word, three letters, only it sounds longer on his tongue, with his accent. The prince shrugs. He is unused to questions. But Ford is a King all his own, a god among lesser beings, and Ozai knows better than to antagonize that strength. His attention lingers on the folder. There are pictures inside, a woman’s height, her weight, her measurements. It had struck him as unfeeling when Ford requested the information, boiling down the essence of her to little more than facts and figures. He leans back in his seat, shrugging, “Once my father passes, Iroh will head our empire. Seeing as I’m extraneous to their grand imaginings,” the young man shrugs. It is a lazy, rolling gesture. He smiles, all teeth, too wide to feign honesty, “Only prudent to secure my own entertainment.”

“Ah.”

He says no more than that, flicking his attention to the folder again. He opens it to the first page. A portrait. Ozai purses his lips. He doesn’t want to look at her right now. The prince catalogs the busts instead. His voice is cold, clipped, when he speaks, a consummate businessman and politician, “Could you do it?”

Ford steeples his fingers, “Of course. There is the matter of cost…”

“Yes.”

“The narrative,” it strikes him that those eyes are not particularly friendly. They glitter in the artificial light, a trickster spirit, speaking in the most genial voice. “Will be of my own design. Entirely original.”

The muscles in his jaw twitch, “And my input?”

He smiles, a king and a god, surrounded by blues and blacks. When he speaks, it’s almost companionable, “Will not prove necessary.”

___

The setting is idyllic, bordering on cliche, a small settler’s cottage on the outskirts of town. He asks the barkeep for her by name and the man frowns, sad, a pitying look flitting across his features. Bit of bad luck was what that was, he says, towel drying one of the whiskey tumblers. He sets it neatly on the counter beside the rest of the set, his gaze drifting to some point beyond Ozai’s shoulder. It helps distinguish fact from fiction, the host setting off on his scripted monologue. 

Ursa lives away from Sweetwater, alone. She’d been married, once upon a time, to a soldier. Good kid, the barkeep says, nodding to himself. He’d run into trouble one night and...never came back. Been years now, didn’t know if he was dead or had just split town but…

“Sad story,” he says, repeating himself. 

The point is, she’s settled almost an hours ride outside of town. The fields have a hint of wildness to them. Cattle graze in one of the far pastures. It’s pastoral. It’s quiet. Ozai tips his head back, the wind kissing at his skin. It’s hard to imagine Ursa sequestered in such a place. He associates the woman with movement, ambition, with cunning, fine wine and rich fabric. 

This place is the death of those things. 

He hitches his horse outside the house, wrapping his knuckles against the doorframe. No one responds immediately but he catches the sound of movement within, the soft scrape of fabric across the wood floor. He knocks again. 

A clear, tinkering laugh cuts through the silence, “Alright, alright, hold your horses. It’s not like I’m expecting visitors at this hour.” 

He’s braced himself for a hundred possibilities. 

Nothing compares to the sight of her. Ozai is struck silent, his hand falling back to his side. Ursa rounds the corner, an absent smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, just this side of dreamy. Coal black hair spills over her shoulders, a simple dress hugging her frame.

It’s her. Not the shadow of a woman he’d come to resent during the last months of their relationship. Truly her, alive. She stops in front of him, smoothing her hands down the front of her apron. Ursa arches one brow. Her expression is confused, though not unkind, “Can I help you, sir? Must be very lost to stumble across my farm.” 

The host’s voice is reminiscent of his wife but the cadence, the accent, is wrong. There’s a gently southern twang layering her dialogue. When he fails to answer (it’s impossible; the words are lost somewhere between his brain, his mouth), her expression softens. She opens the screen door, stepping forward, reaches out as if to touch his shoulder before she catches herself, “My, I’d swear you’d seen a ghost. Why don’t we take a seat? Just for a moment.” 

Her fingers brush across the back of his palm, electric.

For the briefest instant, her face falls.  
______

This Ursa laughs, freely, openly. 

“You can stay if you want,” she says, wringing her hands. The nail beds are crusted with dirt. Ozai frowns, the urge to touch her overwhelming. He expects her palms are heavily calloused, speaking to the harshness of this life. It is...difficult to justify with the image in his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, staring out towards the horizon. 

It’s summer, always, eternally. 

Limbo, he thinks, turning to inspect his wife’s face. She’s still smiling, nervous energy radiating off her in waves. “You would not be opposed?” 

The woman reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s a microexpression, a twitch in one of the muscle in her cheek, the way her wrist curves ever so slightly, a flick rather than one sure stroke. The spirit of her wears through the facade, “I got a spare room, don’t I? And it’s not like I couldn’t use a another set of hands around here.” She chuckles, indicating the wildness of her property. “Besides,” she glances down, “I’ve seen men like you before.”

He stiffens, “Men like me?” 

“Lost souls,” she clarifies, sadness tugging at her speech. Her accent is thicker when troubled, a reversion to her most base state, “Men in black, roaming these hills, searching for purpose.” 

Ford’s prose is impeccable. Ozai swallows, breath catching in his throat when she steps forward, resting one delicate hand on the curve of his arm, “You lost someone, didn’t you? I see it in your eyes.” 

“Yes.” 

He is not a man of faith. He is not a man of sentiment. But for a moment he wishes, prays, she would look at him with understanding, with intelligence rather than dumb hurt. The host’s tongue flicks out, wetting her bottom lip, “I’m so sorry.” She sighs, removing her hand. The loss of contact is...aching. Ursa wraps her arms around herself, a subconscious movement of self defense, “I’m no stranger to loss myself.” But this Ursa laughs, soft and resigned, “Maybe, with you here, we’ll both find ourselves some closure. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” She’s hopeful, almost childish as she stares up into his face. 

He takes her hand, ignoring the way she stiffens.  
_____

Variations on a theme.  
There is an inherent cruelty to this place, he thinks, insidious, poisonous. Their first encounter, she fears him. He is the man in black, too forward. She shrinks away when he moves to touch her. Her fear grates on him, jars against the memories of his bride. 

Ursa is strength. Ursa is cunning. 

This host is not. She fears him that first encounter.

But this place is limbo, ever shifting and constant all at once. Bandits come on the third night. Ursa is left clutching one hand to her belly, her face twisted in pain, confusion. Bloods seeps through her fingers. In a fit of uncharacteristic chivalry, he holds her while she dies. He returns to Sweetwater with blood drying on his hands, staining the front of his shirt, eyes vacant. It is the second time he has watched her die. It isn’t any easier. He drinks to forget. 

In the morning she is returned to her homestead, alive, smiling, innocent. He arrives later in the morning, finds her sitting on her porch. This time she stands, bringing one hand up to shield her eyes from the mid morning sun. She smiles, “Can I help you, sir? Must be very lost to stumble across my farm.” 

This time, he’ll get it right.  
_____

“What do you hope to accomplish?” Ford frowns, moving around to the opposite side of his desk. He has been monitoring their interactions, intrigued despite himself. The Prince returns, time and again, each iteration more frustrated than the last. He is a lost soul, searching for something immaterial. He ducks his head, lips pursed, “What is your impetus, your drive? What is the root of this self flagellation?” 

Ozai scowls, pacing the length of the doctor’s office, some great beast, an ancient creature, feral, caged. His gold eyes seem to glow in the artificial light, hands curling in to fists near his side. The prince is unaccustomed to failure, loss still an alien concept. When he speaks, his voice is soft, “It’s a game, isn’t it? Everything in this place,” Ozai’s lips curl back, a sneer or a smile, too many teeth, “I intend to win.” 

“Not a game, my prince, not at all. It is a story. And no story worth remembering is entirely happy.” 

The answer does not satisfy him. “She is my wife…”

“She is a construct, lines and lines of code given flesh.” 

Ozai shakes his head. To the boy prince, it is an unthinkable concept.  
_____

Variations on a theme and he’s lived this moment a thousand different ways. She is silent at his side, pensive in the moonlight. In profile, there is more severity to her features, robbing away the artificial youth. In profile, she is achingly similar to the woman he loved.

“Do you remember me?”

They aren’t the right words, if there are any. His voice is soft, drowned out by the wind, insects in the night. Ursa stares up at him. It’s moments like these, moments with depth, where he is most aware of the differences between reality and this fiction. His wife was fire and silk and steel. The host is softer. Her lips turn up in a smile, soft, as she reaches out, the tips of her fingers tracing the line of his cheek. The host’s eyes are closer to amber than gold, the smallest of inconsistencies. It settles in the back of his mind, festering, poisonous.

Not real, it says, and this thing, this echo of his bride, stares up at him with her gentle eyes, so nearly pitying. She continues to stroke his cheek, sad and nothing like he remembers. He smooths his thumb over her lower lip.

His wife would have smirked, setting her teeth against his skin, alive. The host smiles and he wants to strike her, desire bleeding into disgust. “Ursa…”

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, her free hand coming up, palm pressed flat over his heart. She curls her fingers, a hint of pain as her nails bite at his skin and that is right, that is her. She glances down, dark hair framing her face, beautiful and pale. Ursa stares at him through lowered lashes, “Before today, I can’t claim to have made your acquaintance,” she cups his face, a vision of moonlight, cold and wrong, “But I wouldn’t mind you sticking around. Provided you’re amenable.”

It’s her voice, it’s her intonation but the accent is wrong, melodic, matched to this place. The southern drawl is soothing, but he hates it, wants to scream and make this thing understand.

“Hey,” she turns his face towards her. She smiles, leaning in to brush her lips against his, chaste, “Don’t go running off on me now, stranger.”

He kisses her hard enough to make her stiffen in surprise. The host’s arms come around him a moment later, melting into the embrace. She sounds the same; she tastes the same. Her hands tangle in his hair, drawing him nearer, a low noise of approval rumbling through her chest and he tells himself she’s the same.

They break for air and she stares up him with amber eyes, soft and wanting, unfamiliar.  
____

“What happened to her?” Ford lingers by his desk, hand halfway to the decanter. It is oddly stilted for the man, as if the thought has only just occurred to him and struck with such force that he cannot help but ask. “This great love of yours.”

Ozai chuckles. It is an unkind sound, almost rasping, “You never looked?’

“I prefer to begin my narratives free from the confines of realities.”

“How dedicated, Doctor,” he leans forward, accepting the drink when Ford offers it. He takes a testing sip. As ever, the older man’s taste is impeccable. Ozai traces a finger around the rim of his glass, watches as condensation beads on the side. “I'll indulge you. One question. Choose wisely.”

“In the end curiosity will be the death of us all,” Ford chuckles, ducking his chin. The expressions is boyish, despite the severity of his tone. “You killed her, didn't you? Your Ursa?” It’s a statement more than a question, a declaration of fact.

There are excuses. There are always excuses. The years wear on and he grows tired of them. Ozai holds the other man’s stare. He could string together a narrative of his own: the abusive father, neglectful, controlling. He could say it was an order and it would be true.

But it’d been his decision and so he answers truthfully. He simply says:

“Yes.”  
____

Variations on a theme. They are here again, for the thousandth time, and the same question is poised on his tongue. Ozai brushes hair out of her face, his expression pinched.

“Do you love me?”

Ursa hums, curling against his chest. The bed is too narrow for his bulk, let alone the pair of them. She seems content regardless, her leg hitched over his hip, their dark hair tangled together on the pillows. Her eyelashes flutter once before she blinks awake, smiling at him dreamily. She turns her face into his bicep, nose tweaked against the muscle.

“Is this what passes for pillow talk back east?”

There’s a hint of mischief in her voice. It’s the nearest to the real thing she’s ever been and his heart twinges painfully in his chest. He curls a finger beneath her chin, staring down at her, inspecting her face. “Answer the question.”

She stares at him in dumb confusion, pressing one hand against his shoulder. She wants to put distance between them; he won’t allow it. Her eyes flick to more neutral ground, focusing on the burn winding its way across his shoulder, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth.”

“The truth?” Ursa smiles. It never looks right on her face, her brows furrowing, lips always twitching downwards before she finally forces them up in some desperate approximation of happiness. “The truth is, sir, I don’t even really know you.”

Something must pass over his face. Anger, resentment. There’s a flash of panic in her eyes before she takes his face in her hands, whispering against his lips, fervent, “But I want to. I want to know you.” The damage is already done.

He rolls her onto her back. Ursa is willing and eager, her legs a vice around his hips. She’ll whisper, pretty promises, empty words meant to placate him. She’ll moan for him. She’ll whimper, biting her lip to keep from screaming into the morning air. Every sound is perfectly Ursa and he finds himself hating it, hating her. She can say what he wants to hear. She chooses to defy him.

He’s played out this scenario a hundred times, asked that same question a hundred ways, variations on a theme.

Not once in those hundred lives does she love him.  
____

Variations on a theme and he’s come to hate her, hate this place, hate the innocence on her face, the way she smiles. This...simulacrum has taken root in his head, poisoning the memories of his wife. He finds it difficult to recall the exact nuisances of her expressions, the exact scent of her skin. 

Those complexities are erased, twisted by the host, imperfect, an imposter. 

Ursa is his. The only thing, the only person, who was ever truly his. He cannot let go of that, cannot let go of her. His brother will call it obsession, madness. Ozai calls it drive, glorious purpose. One day, he will succeed. One day, he will find the ghost of his bride, buried within this machine. And so he returns, day after day, month after month, year after year, a man determined, a man possessed. 

She is silent at his side, and so he speaks, taking in the moonlit hills, “Would you ever leave this place?” 

Ursa hums. She reaches out to take his hand. He allows it, if only because he’s come to crave the contact, needs the validation that she is real, physical and not another ghost. “Go back east with you, you mean?” 

“Yes,” if he explains, she will not understand. 

The woman’s face twists, “Can’t say I’ve ever thought about it. My whole life is right here.” 

It is cruel. He is cruel, but he revels in the way she struggles, straining against her code, the tethers in her head. “Picture it. Our life. Our children.” 

Her face twists, “I never had those things.” 

“Would you want them?” 

She looks frustrated and he revels in that, a genuine reaction, her pale face twisting as she rakes her brain for an answer. Her expression goes blank, all at once, a minor shutdown, fabricated emotion giving way to mechanical glitches, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question.” 

She isn’t programmed to know. 

He hates her. Ozai curls one finger under her chin, forces her to meet his eyes. His voice is low, dangerous, in the night air, “Could you love me?”

The same dumb confusion flits across her face, brow burrowing as she presses against the edges of her coding, “I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.”

______

The Phoenix is older now, a note of resignation hanging off his shoulders. The world has sunk its claw into the great bird’s flesh, carving out their own hurts. Ford will not say he has been humbled. Ozai is not that sort of man, will die before admitting his own defeat. 

But he is tired now, hands hanging over his knees. His gaze is set on the far wall. It is a ghastly tribute to Ford’s own power, a visual reminder that he is the host’s Father, their god. Ursa’s face is set there among the rest of his spawn, an emotionless mask. 

“Will she ever be happy?” His question hangs of the air between them.

Perhaps it is pity that prompts his response. 

“No,” he says. Ford stares down into his drink, the left corner of his mouth turning up in the mimicry of a smile. “No, never with you.”

And the Phoenix laughs, resigned.  
____

A hundred iterations, a hundred different lives. Variations on a theme. 

Ozai hitches his horse in front of the small house. He is filled with hate and love and longing, all in equal measure. He is a man of singular drive. 

Ursa smiles at him, lifts one hand to shield her eyes from the mid-morning sun. And her response comes as it always has, the words long since burned into his memory, “Can I help you, sir? Must be very lost to stumble across my farm.” 

This time, he’ll get it right.


	2. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azulon does not order Ozai to kill Zuko. Their nation requires heirs, and Ozai's distaste for the boy is well document. Instead, he asks for the life of the Prince's bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are back in a normal universe, haha. The prompt for this round was: Dead Ursa. Slight canon divergence. I honestly never understood what Azulon was hoping to accomplish by having Ozai kill Zuko. He doesn't really like the kid, it makes Azula (who he vastly prefers) his heir, and he gets to keep banging his hot wife. You know what's worse? Make him kill his hot wife. Then he doesn't get to have sex AND he's still stuck with Zuko. C'mon, Azulon. Can't let petty cruelty get in the way of...well, sanity.

“You dare suggest I betray Iroh? My firstborn? Directly after the demise of his only beloved son?”

The flame wall roared higher, matching the Fire Lord’s fury. Ozai was decades past his youth and yet the same boyish fear remained coiled in his gut. He was a man now, a prince, a master of nearly unparalleled skill. Yet here, in front of the throne, it counted for nothing. A Father always held some way over his child’s life, some sickly, unknowable, power. 

Azulon’s claws were sunk into the very fibers of his being, binding them on a level deeper than blood, than choice, than anything in the world. On the basest of levels, he belonged to the man. He would never be free. Ozai pursed his lips, forced himself to hold steady as the heat became more oppressive, the intensity of the light blinding. 

“I think Iroh has suffered enough. But you?” Azulon shifted forward in his seat, the flames reaching the high ceilings of the throne room. In the morning, they would leave ashy black marks in their wake. His tone had shifted, low and poisonous. “Your punishment has scarcely begun.” 

Ozai kept his eyes downcast, his voice even. Any show of emotion, be it contrition or rage, would be poorly received. The prince held his arms out wide, “I apologize, Father. I thought only for the good of our Nation…” 

“You thought only of your own ambitions, boy, poorly veiled as they are,” he sneered. In his youth, Azulon’s might have been considered handsome. Strange, certainly. His face was overly long, the nose hawkish. Time had done him no favors, his face heavily lined with wrinkles, crows feet, marred by liver spots. “I have been lenient with your various...insubordinations until now, Ozai. Too lenient, I see.” 

The right corner of his lips ticked down before he could catch it. Yes, lenient. The spies in every corner of the palace were lenient. The constant reminders of his failings were lenient. That he remained trapped in this gilded cage while his brother carved out a legacy for himself was lenient. 

“You disagree?” 

Ozai ignored the question, “I would not think to question the Fire Lord’s judgement.”

Azulon scowled, a reply on the tip of his tongue, brow furrowed, “Flattery you learned, but not common sense.” The elderly man leaned back in his seat, regarding him more carefully. The flame wall had resumed its more neutral state, casting flickering shadows across the floor. He did not like the sudden swell of calm, the pregnant quality to the air. “A life for a life would prove a fitting punishment…” 

“Father, Zuko…” 

The Fire Lord cut him off, snarling, “Do not insult my intelligence, boy. Casting aside a second prince endangers our nation. We are not all so impetuous as you.” The dread resumed its vigil in his chest, fingers curling inwards towards his palms, biting little crescents into the flesh. “Your distaste for your firstborn is not well hidden, Ozai, and therefore, not an equal trade.”

The verdict hung between them on the still air. Azulon’s lips curled back in a smile, almost conspiratory, “Perhaps you would be better behaved if deprived of your favorite toy.” The prince’s head jerked up, the temperature around him rising without his bidding. “You were blessed with two heirs, Prince Ozai. Roku’s spawn is no longer a necessity.” 

“Father, our bloodline is strong…” 

“Your bloodline is assured, boy. She has long since served her purpose. Do not forget, the girl was my gift to you.” 

He wanted to snarl, lash out at the man. He remained firmly rooted to the spot, a coward on his knees. Ozai’s voice remained even, “A firstborn for a firstborn, Father. Let that be the trade.” Ursa was still young. They could conceive again. Azula would be a more fitting heir and she could bear him another son yet. He lifted his head, willing the man to make the trade. One heir for another. “Ursa’s life is not equal to true royalty, Father. It is not in her blood…” 

“Perhaps not,” the whispery calmness was back in his voice, entirely in control, “And yet. You would trade a prince’s life for your broodmare. No, Ozai. I am decided. The cost is set.” Azulon made an idle gesture with his right hand, “Guards. Summon Princess Ursa. She should not have gone far.” 

“Your verdict should take effect in the morning.” 

He could feel the Fire Lord’s mounting frustrations. The flames on his left sputtered momentarily before flaring back to life, the act of insubordination surprising him. Azulon’s eyes narrowed to thin slits, “And how would you spend those hours, Prince Ozai? Smuggling Roku’s spawn out of the city? Or would you indulge the more treasonous bent of your mind?” 

Ozai bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, “I am loyal, Father.” 

“Silence!”

Like a child, he lapsed into silence, bowing his head. There was an uncomfortable measure of truth to the wild accusations. With a few hours, he could send for a peasant woman of roughly Ursa’s size. If he charred the body badly enough no one would know the difference. His bride could slip off until the day of his father’s death. When she returned, he would deem her reborn, a Phoenix. The people would worship her, further securing his claim to the throne. Now...

He was weak. He was powerless. He was trapped. The second born prince fought back the need to snarl. His father was old...he was undefended…

If he acted now, before the guards arrived, Ozai held little doubt that he could kill the man. 

“We both know you won’t do it, boy,” Azulon’s voice was softer, more cordial. Something in his eyes, a deeper shade of gold than Ozai’s own, was almost pitying, disappointed. “Even now.” 

Even now. The Fire Lord was Agni’s chosen vessel, the supreme authority within the Fire Nation. If he ever wished to hold the title, he was equally liable to respect it’s sanctity. Ozai pursed his lips. His knees were beginning to ache. He was not meant to bow.

Fifteen minutes. He counted time in his head, willing his bride to have done something foolish. Either to have escaped the guards or rashly seen herself killed. Selfishly, he did not wish to see her die. The sound of booted footsteps broke him from his reverie. Two of his Father’s elite guards entered the throne room. Ursa was stationed between them, her expression set, hard. His wife sought out his gaze, one well manicured brow arched in question. He looked away.

His bride, ever dutiful, well learned in court diplomacy, resumed her place at his side, bowing low before speaking, “My apologies for the delay, Fire Lord Azulon. I was attending our children when the summons arrived.” 

Azulon made a vague gesture with his arm, his voice warm. Ozai wanted to spit at him, “You are a credit to your station, Princess Ursa. While undeserving of such deference, you have served my son nobly.” 

Her tongue smoothed along the seam of her lips. Ever clever, Ursa had caught the turn in his phrase, the careful selection of the past tense. She glanced towards Ozai, eyeing him more carefully, “My Lord husband deserves all that I give him and more, Fire Lord.” 

“Does he, now?” The old man chuckled, the sound rasping, unpleasant. “Because of your service, girl, I will make you aware of the situation. This boy spoke out of turn. I must mete out punishment.” 

“Of course, my lord.”

“Your life will balance the scales.”

Ursa did not wince. His bride shifted only slightly, instinctively searching out his warmth. In such a situation, he found the habit curious. Ozai himself had damned her. He remained her sanctuary. She dipped her chin, beautiful in the firelight. In truth, his bride had grown only more lovely with age. The red of her ceremonial robes set her off her natural pallor, the darkness of her hair. “Your word is law, my lord.” 

“Ever dutiful,” he hummed, standing. Azulon descended the steps, stopping directly in front of the princess. He could not kneel, only bend slightly at the waist, crooking one thin finger beneath her chin. The Fire Lord frowned, brow furrowing, searching her face for some. Fear, perhaps. He would find only a blank mask. With his free hand, he touched her cheek, “And brighter than my son too, I fear. The boy wanted a trade for your life.” Ozai’s stomach clenched, “I wonder if you would have accepted those terms, Princess Ursa. Your husband was quick to offer Zuko to the slaughter.” 

Hatred flared to life in her amber eyes, a flash before she could catch herself, “I do not presume to know my husband’s mind.” 

Her nails bit into his wrist. He wished they would break skin. 

Azulon smiled, nodding, “Be at ease, daughter. You will serve your nation nobly one final time. Perhaps your life will teach my son a much needed lesson in tact, in respect, in so many things…” He motioned to the guards to come nearer, one of the men producing a ceremonial knife from his belt. The edge glittered in the low light, inky black and sharp. Azulon helped the princess to her feet. 

Ozai spoke without thinking, “Stop.” He was on his feet in one fluid movement, his fingers curling around the guard’s wrist. “It is my crime, is it not? I should be the one to hold the knife.” 

Ursa stared at him, impassive. Over the course of their marriage, he learned to read her expressions, muted as they sometimes were. She was relieved. The Elite guard were renowned for their cruelties. She would die slowly at their hands, painfully.

At least he could guarantee her a painless passing.

Azulon considered this, “Very well, Prince Ozai.” He turned away from them, marking back towards the throne. 

This was foolish. This was mad. He could close the distance between himself and the Fire Lord in a single bound. The old man wouldn’t even have the foresight to turn before the steel buried itself in his back. Ursa shook her head, offering him a soft smile. His wife stepped nearer, winding her arms around his back. She was soft, smelling pleasantly of spices, of honey, of jasmine. They had made love in the early hours of the morning (Agni, but it felt far away) and the scent of her still lingered on his own skin, over powering. She learned in, dragging her lips across his cheek, nails biting at the nape of his neck as she inclined his head to the side, lips against his ear. 

“Make this count. By the spirits, if you killed me for nothing, I will haunt you until this world ends.” 

He could not help himself. Ozai laughed, “I swear it, my queen.” 

He kissed her, hard enough to hurt, committing the taste of her skin, the press of her body, to memory.

And when she pulled away, hungry for air, he brought the knife across her throat.


	3. Crime AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampire AU. Ozai has owned the city for centuries. Ursa arrives to carve out a place for herself. They marry to cement a cease fire between their warring families. Ozai is convinced he can break her. Ursa has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not an angst heavy chapter but...to be fair, we mostly set out to torture Ozai and he's not very happy throughout the whole of this. The next chapter will be the twisty angsty one, with this setting the scene. Apologies for the HEAVY reliance on Vampire the Masquerade lore. I tried to make...palatable. Also the VERY LOOSE interpretation of crime. They're crime lords. That counts, right? IT COUNTS, RIGHT?

They are married in a church, per his wishes.

His future bride frowned, staring up at the exaggerated statues, almost gothic in their design. Ozai would admit the architecture was out of place in Los Angeles. The dust coating the pews, and the altar itself, suggested the city was quite happy to leave this aspect of their history buried. 

The elder undead tipped his head to the side, the dark curtain of his hair tumbling over his shoulder, casting half his face in shadow, “The Camarilla do not fear God?”

Her lips curled back in a sneer. No, they were children, still fumbling in the dark. The Camarilla, her chosen sect, a loose coalition of vampiric clans, were younger. They did not remember their species history. They did not remember the antediluvians, the first of the kind, their oppressors. They did not believe in God or damnation or Judgement. They were ruled by their ignorance. 

“I suppose I’ve never been a spiritual person,” she spoke to the statues, her voice smooth, hanging on the stagnant air. “We freed ourselves from the Church’s tyranny centuries prior.” The young woman smirked, dragging her fingers across the altar. A savage joy lit her eyes, leaving fresh tears through the dust. The new, cleaning the old away, “Though I can appreciate the irony of a god fearing undead.”

“Better a slave to knowledge than ignorance, little princess.”

Her smile vanished.

What a beautiful creature she was in her rage, the noble blood running through her veins demanding she maintain her composure. The Ventrue, the eldest of the vampiric clans, were tiredly dedicated to such things. The muscle in her jaw ticked, gaze snapping forward. She did not trust herself to speak calmly and thus would not speak at all. A perfect lady, perfectly composed, and well bred…

He found such decorum, such adherence to mortal pleasantries, tiresome.

Ursa was everything he’d fought against these past three centuries given form, the antithesis of everything he represented. The very blood in her veins called to something ugly, something hungry, within him, bidding him to kill her. Their clans, their houses, had been at war since the first of their kind walked the world. 

For the past seven years she served as a thorn in his side, clawing out a place for herself within the city. The Camarilla had sent her West without support, without their armies, with no supplies, and somehow the little bitch had managed to encroach upon his territory. They named her Prince, the sovereign of all vampiric clans within Los Angeles. As if her minor victories counted for anything. 

It mattered little. Los Angeles belonged to the Sabbat. It was his city and he presided over it as Archbishop. Their marriage, while unusual, would mark the end of their trivial skirmishes, at least temporarily. The little princess saw it as a peace offering, a way to fortify her position within the city. 

The naivete was almost charming.

Ozai would use this lull to mass his own armies. He would learn her secrets. If he was truly lucky, he could twist the little bitch, tear her from the Camarilla, strip her of her titles. She was young. He would break her. He would own her. It was a pleasant imagining. 

Her voice tore him from his reverie, droll, unimpressed, “Your fangs are showing, bishop.”

He did not miss the slight, the degradation of his title, “Does that frighten you, little princess?” The Camarilla lived in hiding, never showing their true nature, afraid of the mortal world. 

She did not respond. She searched the faces of the statues instead, godless, ignorant.

He would break her.  
____

She would retain her station as Prince within the Camarilla. 

He would remain Archbishop. 

“Our personal life should not affect our private business,” he flicked his attention to her. His new bride continued her vigil by the large bay windows, staring out towards the city. Their...marital home was strategically positioned within a no man’s land, equidistant between the Sabbat and Camarilla strongholds. He hated the simplicity of the design. His clan prided themselves on elegance, beauty, and the skyscraper’s lines struck him as...brusque. “So long as your enterprises do not interfere with my own…”

“They will not,” she said. He could feel her in his head, nails scraping across his consciousness, searching for a break in his guards. He pushed back against the intrusion, hard enough to make her wince. “I have more pressing concerns.”

Ozai frowned, closing the distance between them with long, sure strides. She did not flinch when he curled a finger beneath her chin, turning her face towards him. Her gaze flicked towards the glass, smirking. Her own reflection was there. His was...absent. 

His clan, his bloodline, were cursed for their arrogance, for their vanities. It rankled, even now. Ozai shook his head, unwilling to let her bait him, “You are troubled?”

“Tired,” she corrected, leading his touch away. “I am tired, sir.” 

“Ozai,” the corner of his lips twitched, amused, “You are my wife and thereby entitled to such...informalities.”

“How generous of you.” 

“No one has ever accused me of as much, princess,” he frowned, pressing the back of his fingers to her cheek. The fool creature refused to shift away from him, holding his stare. “You should rest.” 

“There’s too much work to be done.” 

“And I suppose you can accomplish that work if you’re dead?” She scowled, no doubt irritated by his logic. Ozai searched her mind, feeling along the edges. Perhaps aware of his probing, she allowed her guards to drop. Only in one respect, only allowing him entry where she desired. He saw the stress of her situation. The Camarilla expected her to fail. They would not support her. She had inherited a territory deep behind enemy lines. Her supply routes were in tatters, the undead sitting on her council were too young, ignorant and weak and hungry for her position. The ship was sinking and she could not stop it. 

He withdrew from her thoughts, gentle. 

Ozai frowned, stroking her cheek, “There is a solution to your problem, princess, beautiful in its simplicity.” His new bride did not speak. Her brow furrowed slightly. Tonight, he felt indulgent. “Kill them.” He continued on before she could mount an argument, “If they have failed you, if they will not recognize your authority...cut them off.” 

“Is that how you conduct your business?” 

He chuckled, “It’s half of it, princess. You would find the rest unsavory.” 

“Perhaps I would,” Ursa hummed, her gaze falling, lingering at the midpoint of his chest. Her right hand came up, lifting the chain. A crucifix, elegant, simple in its design, was hidden beneath his shirt at all times. His bride chuckled, smoothing her thumb over the cross, “Thank you, regardless. I’ve spent the past seven years alone in this city. It was...pleasant. Speaking with you.” 

He nodded, stepping away from her, pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles. 

He had been alone much longer.

______

A month passed. 

They spend only a handful of moments in the other’s company. Ozai catalogued her fraying temper, the slips in her perfect masks. Her frustration bled across the bond between them. The elder vampire assured himself he was acting in his own self interests when he intervened. 

The truce between them meant he could not openly mobilize his forces. Los Angeles was his city, however. He had spent decades putting down roots, carefully cultivating his relationships. There were hunters in the city, less dedicated to the nobility of their cause and more receptive to coin. He plucked the names of her council members from her mind, passing them on without regret. 

Ursa stormed into his office the next week, proud, even as his underlings sneered at her, muttering profanities under their breath. She was a false prophet, ignorant, a Camarilla whore. He catalogued each of these slights. Once she departed, he would exact retribution. His bride’s reputation was entwined with his own. It was necessary to demonstrate that to the city. 

Her amber eyes were blazing, dark hair thrashing behind her as she moved. The force of her will extended well beyond her mortal shell, tearing at his mind, “We had an agreement. You would not intrude in my affairs.” 

“And I have not.” 

She rolled her eyes, chuckling darkly, settling on the opposite side of his desk. Ursa leaned forward, sliding a coin towards him. A hunter’s mark. A sigil of a contract fulfilled, “I suppose the Hunters mobilized themselves.” 

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility, princess.” 

“You had my council assassinated. That is an act of war.” 

“I protected my investment,” he stood. The difference in their height was dramatic. In heels, she managed to bridge the gap somewhat, the crown of her head resting beneath his nose. She shifted back a fraction of a step, her eyes narrowing. He was stronger. Far, far stronger than she could ever dream, “The slate is clean. You may reshape your organization, free from guilt, bloodless.”

“You killed our people, Ozai. Other undead.” 

“Yes. For you.”

She blinked, her mouth opening before falling shut. His bride shook her head, “That is not how I do things, husband.” She turned away from him, leaving as abruptly as she’d come. Anger no longer radiated off of her willowy frame.

Instead, it’s regret.  
_____

The next few months they spend apart.

Ursa would manifest by his side when necessary, making her presence known at social events. In private, she kept to her own territory, sequestered away within her stronghold downtown. 

He told himself it didn’t matter. He did not mourn the loss of her company. 

He was not grovelling when he sent her a list of former contacts in the downtour area, an intern in the local clinic capable of smuggling out blood packs. It was for cohesion only, the betterment of their alliance. 

She returned to him, smiling, and there was something in the expression he did not like. It was too knowing.  
_____

“Did you welcome the Embrace, Ozai?” 

He leaned back at his seat, head cocked to the side. Ursa stared into the fire, turning her wrist this way and that, cataloguing the way the shadows broke over her skin. She turned just enough to meet his eyes, her question hanging between them eager. A decanter sat on the end table beside her, one glass.The blood was his anniversary gift to her. Mortals with fine pedigrees were difficult to find here in the States but he’d managed. It had earned him another smile, conspiratory. She took a testing sip, pleased with the rich flavor. 

“Why the sudden curiosity, princess?”

“You are my husband. I find I know very little about you.” 

He reached out, manipulating the shadows. Some of his lesser minions found the sight unsettling, a creeping darkness. Ursa did not react outside an amused hum, crooking one finger as he curled the darkness around her wrist. It was foolish to indulge her curiosity. He pursed his lips, “Immortality...did not come to me by choice.” 

Ursa stood, shaking off his shadows. He allowed this. His wife fetched a second glass, fine crystal, pouring him a generous portion of the blood. She closed the distance between them, pressing the cup into his hand. He tried not to linger on the brush of her fingers, the low ache that her proximity sometimes inspired. “Tell me of it.” 

“Why, little princess? Do you believe that knowledge will help you? That a few old stories will undermine my place in this city?” 

“They might help me understand. Your organization. You.” Her eyes flicked back to the crucifix. “We are partners now, are we not?” They were not. It was the illusion of civility. He stood against the world, alone.

He searched her face for any signs of deception, gently pressing against her consciousness. Ursa let her guards drop, let him sift through the outermost layers of her mind. He felt her honesty, her relative youth, her desire to understand. It was...charming. 

“Sit,” he reached out, taking her hand in his own. Her skin was warmer than his own. “Tell me, what do you know of diablerie?” His bride shifted back, her expression pinching. He felt her discomfort, clawing across their bond. Even the word inspired distaste, fear, disgust. 

Diablerie was cannibalism of the highest order. The utter consumption of another member of their kind. Every drop of their blood, their essence, their soul. She frowned, “It is forbidden within the Camarilla.”

“My kind do not harbor such an outlook, little princess,” he touched her cheek, amused by her youth. Ursa still felt fresh, the ravages of time slipping off her shoulders, “The strong rule. The weak are consumed.”

She frowned, “How does this relate to my question, husband?” 

He ignored her, reaching out, caressing the elegant line of her throat. He wondered how she tasted, if her blood would prove even more delectable. “My family tracks its lineage back before the crusades. My father, Azulon, counted himself among the first Lasombra. A fifth generation undead.” A truly ancient being, massively powerful. “He was turned on his deathbed. I believe his progenitor desired our wealth.”

Ursa said nothing. The woman was perhaps a seventh generation. Still powerful, the youngest of the undead lords. Not common, not young, not diluted like the newer generations. She relaxed beside him, shuffling nearer on the cramped divan. He ignored the press of her body against his own. “My brother had returned home to oversee our Father’s funeral. Once he understood what had happened…” he pursed his lips together. The particulars of that night, his last as a mortal, were hazy at best. Iroh had roused him from his slumber, he knew that much. His brother wanted to flee. His tongue flicked out smoothing along the seam of his lips, “We were Azulon’s property, of course. He Embraced us both that night.” Want had never factored into the equation. “It gave him a new level of control over our lives. If we disobeyed, he climbed inside our heads, forced us to act as he liked.” 

Her nails bit into his side, clutching to her more tightly. As if she could protect him from the memories. As if he needed her child’s pity. Ozai watched the fire, the flickering darkness, “Iroh escaped, eventually. Even went so far as to join your precious Camarilla.” 

“But you stayed. Why?” 

“Power, little princess,” he smirked, wolfish, turning in her hold until they were nose to nose. The air was charged between them, thick with promise, “I knew one day my Father would sleep. And that day…” 

“Diablerie,” she finished. 

“Yes,” he smoothed his thumb offer her lower lip, amused when she did not pull away, “Was it wrong for me to kill him, little princess? Do you believe I committed some great sin?” 

Ursa frowned, holding his gaze. Eventually, she shook her head. Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him down to her for a kiss. 

She tasted of blood and ash.  
______

“I want access to Hollywood.” 

Ozai leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled. As she so often did these days, his wife had come to discuss business. His underlings still liked to whisper, centuries of war and hatred could not be so easily driven from a base animal, but they were quieter. They knew what horrors would fall on their heads if their master noticed their...discrepancies. Ursa was relaxed, legs crossed, beautiful in her elegantly tailored suit. He preferred her in less. 

He shook his head, “Your ventures are restricted to Camarilla territory. The downtown is yours. Hollywood, everything else in this city, is mine.” 

“I’m not asking you to forfeit territory, husband,” the affectation had slipped into her vocabulary more readily these past few months. So eager to translate the growing emotional connection between them into political currency. “Only that you let me do business.” 

“Business?” 

“Cocaine, heroin...our suppliers are more than agreeable,” she crossed her legs, her smile soft, uncharacteristically gentle. He wondered if there were other men, foolish enough to fall prey to her lure, “I want to extend our influence. New blood, new dealers.” 

“Ah.”

“You would be provided with a cut, of course. Even more generous if you could guarantee the safety of my men.”

“The safety of your men,” he snorted, turning away from her. “Mortals, I’m sure?” 

“They arouse less suspicion.”

“They’re weak.” 

“They’re loyal.”

Ozai pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated with her continued obstinance. He could not make her learn, he could not make her understand and it was maddening, “Regardless. You will not operate outside of your territory. That verdict is final, wife.” 

She smiled at him, vicious, sweet, moving around his desk. Ursa curled one finger beneath his chin, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. The taste of her lingered the remainder of his evening. His work was suddenly impossible.  
_____

He plucked the names of her dealers from her mind. For all her strength, Ursa was considerably younger, two generations removed from him. He could break her if he so desired. It still carried an unmistakable allure, he could not deny. More and more often these nights, he simply wished to make her understand. 

One of his agents was more than enough for her precious mortals. 

Their deaths were...quick, if gruesome. It would not do to send corpses to her suite. Polaroids served just as well, gory enough to make his point, attached to a handwritten note.

He had made himself clear. She was not to conduct her business in his territory. 

His next reprisal would not be so civil.  
_____

They continued their dance for another six months. Ursa pushing his boundaries. Never violating their treaty just...teasing the edges of propriety. He took her aside one night, his grip on her wrist hard to enough to bruise, the bones shifting under his hold. 

“Do you have a deathwish, woman?” 

She stared at him, unflinching, “You won’t kill me, Ozai.” 

“You think I need your pathetic treaty? That your Camarilla would save you?” She chuckled, reaching up to stroke his cheek. He hated the knowing look on her face. He hated that he could not understand her certainty. 

“It pains you, doesn’t it?” Her free hand settled on his hip, pulling him nearer. Her body young and warm, scented with blood and ash. “It’s not the Camarilla you hate. It’s that you can’t control me. Not without breaking my mind or killing me.” 

“Be silent.” 

“Make me,” her eyes glittered in the darkness, naked challenge, arrogance. He wanted to strike her. He wanted to make her understand. He was in control. She was his wife. Ozai remained where he was, unmoving, the shadows twitching around them, echoing his irritation, his impotence. Her expression softened. “You see.”

He wanted to scream at her, to demand her obeisance, to wipe that damnable smile off her godless, youthful face, “Why do you insist on playing these games?” 

She laughed, twining her arms about his neck, “It’s our destiny, isn’t it? To drive the other mad?”

In that, at least, she had succeeded.  
____

They lie together one morning, the sun just cresting the horizon, tucked away in their private sanctuary. Ursa curled against his chest, tapping out a staccato beat with one nail. She pursed her lips, tipping her head up to look at him, soft. Insidiously soft. 

“I could love you, I think,” she said, humming. 

He did not respond. She did not want a response to start. 

The damage was done. 

Love was another form of torture. Love meant relinquishing free will. Love meant owning and being owned. 

Ozai would never be owned again.  
_____

She no longer came to him in the night, wanting to talk business. Instead, she came bearing sweeter gifts. A pretty young woman she’d stumbled across, eager to trade her blood for the euphoria of the vampire’s bite. She came to him with smiles and clever suggestions and easy smiles.

She came to him, beautiful and poisonous, easy to love and eager to damn him.

And if he surrendered, he doubted he would ever claw his way back to freedom.

Ursa smiled.


	4. Divorce AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Ursa takes the kids and leaves. Ozai handles this in true Ozai fashion.

The house was silent for the first time in six years.

This realization was not accompanied by the relief he always suspected he might feel. Instead, it was more...neutral. On his good days he greeted the silence with acceptance. In his darker moods it felt more akin to resignation. Ozai frowned, dragging the tips of his fingers across the marble countertops. They were immaculate. No day old cereal spilled by the children in their carelessness. Not splattered with one of Ursa's failed culinary experiments. They were clean. They were cold.

He plucked the leftovers from last nights dinner from the fridge (he was still adapting to cooking for one), turned on the news. The content didn’t interest him. It broke the monotony of silence. He closed his eyes. He listened to the timbre of a stranger’s voice (a new girl, not yet comfortable being on air; he heard the delicate quaver when she spoke, too nasal). It was too calm. Evenings in their home were chaotic. The children clamoring for his attention, speaking at once (leaving him with a migraine). Ursa attempting to coax him into sharing a meal with his family. 

Sometimes she succeeded. He was not too proud to admit he was an absent father. He felt no shame in the fact. Ursa had wanted the children. They were _hers_ to look after. 

And still she had complained. Always nagging him after they were safely tucked away in bed, staring at him with hurt, accusative eyes. He could make an effort. He could spare one evening for them, or ask about their days, or…

Ozai massaged his temple. The news wasn’t cutting it. Ursa’s voice still haunted him. 

The reality of the situation was only just settling in. It’d been a month since Ursa took the children. Every moment remained burned into his mind, played on loop when he was left alone with his thoughts. He had let her go. He had been _amused_ by her petty little _tantrum._

And it had been a tantrum. They’d fought the night before. It’d been over something so stupidly trivial he couldn’t even recall the particulars. The last six month of their marriage had proved a lesson in tedium. Her company was exhausting. Ursa was desperate to fight. Every minor infraction; every evening he'd come home late. He’d asked her about it in one of their rare honest moments. 

His wife laughed, drunk on the wine. A cheap bottle, no doubt selected solely to vex him. It was thin, tasting more of vinegar than anything else. It was suited to their evening. Ursa smiled. She was curled against his chest, dragging the tips of her fingers along the rim of her glass. Even as their marriage careened towards the gutter they’d retained their physicality. It’d always been...easier than conversation. Her free hand settled on his thigh. 

Her voice was colored by a delicate slur, struggling to make the words clear, “Why do I want to fight?” He nodded. Her hair was draped across his chest, scented with honey and jasmine. It was a heady combination, too strong. It mixed with the alcohol in his blood and made it impossible to focus. “It’s the only time we talk anymore, isn’t it?” 

He didn’t have a reply at the time. He still didn’t. 

So they’d fought. They’d kept fighting up to the very end. She’d take the children, she’d said, her face red, her hands curled into fists. As if she’d strike him; as if she had the nerve. He wished she would. Somewhere along the line he’d come to hate aspects of her character. Ursa was a coward. She was angry words and hurt feelings and empty threats. Pathetic. 

Ozai frowned, sipping his whiskey. It burned all the way down his throat.

Pathetic. He’d called her pathetic. He’d felt a savage glee in the moment. Ursa blinked at him, stunned, stupid. The fight going out of her all at once. She’d just stared down at her feet, lost. They’d gone to bed without speaking. She’d curled into his side, her back to his chest. She’d dragged his arm over her waist as if the weight was a comfort. Neither of them slept. 

They’d sulked. Silent, poisonous. He’d wanted to scream at her and turned his face into her throat instead.

The next morning, she’d packed their bags. Hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t spoke. Just worked with a tireless efficiency, her shoulders squared, a hint of steel in her gaze. It’d been a refreshing change to the simpering. 

He didn’t believe her. He hadn’t believed her. He still didn’t. 

Azula was the one to stop in front of him. His daughter was not the emotive type, too much like himself for comfort. Her eyes were shiny with tears when she turned, curling her hand around his fingers. She was too young to understand the particulars of the situation. Children understood feeling. They understood emotion. Even at four his daughter was more cognizant than him. Things were changing. She was going away.

He remembered kneeling in front of her, smoothing his thumb along the high line of her cheek. The trace remnants of baby fat clung to her face. She was growing, however, sometimes faster than he liked. A fine bone structure was already starting to take shape. Azula would be a beautiful young woman. Eventually.

“Your mother is playing a game, my dear,” Ozai spoke softly, watching his wife move in the front yard. She was struggling with their suitcases, shoving them into the back of their Escalade. Azula turned into his touch, holding his hand to her face. “Indulge her.”

“Dad…”

He’d chuckled, standing without a second comment. Azula clutched his hand. He watched Ursa go about her frivolous little display. The satisfaction never waned, even as Ursa announced they were leaving. He’d watched them back out the driveway and gone to pour himself a tumbler of whiskey.

Ozai growled.

Ursa had filed for divorce the week after. The papers were still sitting on his desk. Unsigned, unread, unopened. If he ignored the situation it would never gain permanence. There was a voice in the back of his head whispering to him that this would all go away. Ursa was still playing her game, acting out her tantrum. One day soon, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, she would come to her senses. She would come crawling back to him, children in tow, and apologize for what she’d done. 

Their house would feel like a home again, not a mausoleum.

Her voice would no longer haunt him. 

The silence would fade.

He clung to that truth. It was the only one that mattered anymore. 


	5. Married to Someone Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozai and Ursa are divorced. Things are better for them. Despite winning full custody of their children she resolves to keep Ozai in their lives. They're talking again. He's certain this is the moment. They will reconcile. Then Ursa admits she's seeing someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally much different. It was going to be a fic where they flee the Fire Nation after Azulon orders them to kill Zuko. Ozai leaves his family. Long Feng marries Ursa. There's brainwashing. That wasn't working so I tried this instead. 
> 
> This is much more miserable. So here we are. The end of the angst war. And after all the crap we put her through, Ursa gets her happy ending. And, as the rules dictate, Ozai is still miserable. For whoever stuck around for all of this: thank you. You're the best.

Ursa has the courtesy to tell him she’s seeing someone else. She offers him a soft smile in apology, a hint of color flooding her cheeks. The answering swell of jealousy is...unsuited for a man of his station. Ozai grunts in reply, jerking the bag out of her hand. He ushers the children inside without so much as a second glance back at her. 

Rude. He’s being rude.

He doesn’t care. 

The truth is this all feels like a dream, surreal. Ursa wins full custody of their children (the court barely even has to consider this ruling) but she refuses to cut their father out of their lives. Two weekends a month is more than enough for Ozai’s tastes. They still talk. These past few months it’s been almost...pleasant. More like the start of their marriage than the end. 

He’s never truly accepted their divorce. Ursa is made for him. He is made for her. They are separate halves of a larger whole. They will be together in the end. Reconciliation seems to loom on the horizon. 

But she smiles and says she’s seeing someone. 

He bites the inside of his cheek and tastes blood.   
____

Her “someone” is a cop. A widower who has only just moved to the city with his two young children. Ozai pours over the file. It’s well after midnight and he’s on his third cup of coffee. The first trace of a migraine manifest over an hour ago. Sleeps continues to elude him.

Hakoda. His name is Hakoda. His record with the force is exemplary. Numerous superior officers praise the strength of his character and his way with people. His grades in high school were only decent, better in college. He is, in all accounts, a woefully average candidate. 

And yet, Ursa has taken interest in him. 

He does not understand. It is an illogical choice and Ursa is nothing if not reasonable.  
____

“Where did you meet him?” Ozai speaks in a low growl, the fingers of his right hand curling into the counter, the left into the mug of his coffee cup. Every muscle in his back and shoulders are stiff. 

Ursa is brighter than he’s seen her in months. He suspects that’s half the reason she invites him in for coffee. There’s a hint of cologne, masculine, hanging on the air of her townhouse. She’s had company recently. She brushes her hair away from her face, smiling softly, “He was one of the responders after the car accident a few months back.” 

“You were in an accident?”

It’s the first he’s heard of it and it infuriates him that she’s been hiding details of her life. He forces the anger down. No, that isn’t fair. She isn’t obligated to tell him those things. They aren’t together (yet). Ursa must recognize the shift in his demeanor. She reaches out, fingers curling over his wrist, “It wasn’t a bad one, Ozai. I wasn’t even driving. June…” 

“Ah.” 

She laughs, “Don’t be like that, it wasn’t her fault. Anyway. Hakoda arrived on the scene. He was...impressed that I’d managed to keep June from killing the other driver.” She smiles again. He remembers that look. She’d saved it for their better dates, their honeymoon. The rare times they’d been truly happy. Ozai turns his hand over beneath her. She doesn’t pull away, “He’s sweet. A little bumbling. I mentioned I had children and we arranged for the kids to meet. I guess it developed from there.” 

“How charming.” 

When she speaks her voice is softer, her brow pinching, “It’s a lot to ask but couldn’t you pretend to feel happy for me?” It’s an impossibility to ask and they both know it. She squeezes his wrist, “I want you to find someone, Ozai. I really do. You need someone in your life…” 

He cuts her off, brusque, “I don’t want anyone else.” 

She doesn’t respond. Ursa shakes her head and pulls her hand away.  
_____

This is a passing phase. A temporary indulgence, a rebound, whatever the hell else you wanted to call it. She will tire of her average man and she remember everything it is she’s lost. When that moment arrives, Ozai will be waiting. He will be magnanimous, of course. He will forgive her. 

But a year passes and still nothing.   
_____

They are moving in together. 

Hakoda doesn’t want to rush her. Her divorce is still fresh in the rearview mirror and he’s still coping with the loss of his wife. He’s very considerate like that and Ozai feels nauseous. The children relay this information to him. Zuko is ecstatic. 

Azula is more reserved. He takes his daughter aside one evening and asks her what she thinks of the man. If nothing else, Azula still supports him. But her brow pinches, her lips thinning to a fine line. She crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Speak freely, my dear,” he does not like her silence. He has never stopped to consider the possibility that the peasant could steal his daughter away too. Azula has always been loyal. Azula would never betray him. 

But she’s still quiet, staring off into the distance, “He’s an idiot, dad. He’s always talking and he has too many feelings…” he feels a rush of pride, redemption. Azula is still talking, her voice more quiet, “But. He’s...nice.”

“Nice?” The one word is clipped, so sharp that she jerks back to awareness.

“I don’t know. Zuzu likes him. Mom likes him.” 

“Do you, Azula?”

He knows the answer before she speaks. The swell of rage is more intense than anything he’s felt these past few years. It is a betrayal of the highest order. Azula ducks her head, her words soft, “I guess so.”   
_____

Hakoda comes with her to drop off the children. He hates the other man at first glance. 

Where Ozai is tall, lithe, this man barely stands taller than his ex wife. His face is open, blessed with an idiot’s grin. Only his eyes, a rarely pale shade of blue, are remarkable. Ozai is superior in every way. The peasant man waves at him. There’s no judgement on his face, no jealousy. He opens the children’s door first and then Ursa’s. 

She smiles at him, bright and open, mumbling her thanks. The nausea returns. Ozai is left digging his nails into his palm, fighting to keep his expression neutral. She loops one arm loosely about her lover’s waist, tucking her hand in his back pocket. He mirrors the gesture. 

How sweet. 

“Ozai, this is…” 

He cuts her off, painting on the closest approximation of a smile. It’s nearer to a snarl, his lips curling back over too many teeth, “Yes. I’m aware who he is.” 

Hakoda is unphased by his rudeness. The man steps forward, extending one hand to him, “Doesn’t mean we can’t have a proper introduction now, does it, Chief? Name’s Hakoda.” 

Zuko lollops back out onto the porch, tugging at his father’s hand, “He’s real nice, dad.” 

“I’m certain. You’ll be back for the children Monday morning?” 

Ursa’s expression falls. She nods, glancing over at her lover. It’d be simple to miss the following gesture. Ozai does not. The man clutches her more tightly to his side, squeezing once. Reassuring her. As if she needs the comfort, as if she isn’t strong enough to stand on her own. “Yes. We’ll uh...yes. Monday.” 

“Good.” 

He ushers Zuko back inside.  
_____

Ursa lingers in the kitchen with him. Their children are playing in the yard. Soon she’ll take them away. Return to her second family. Her...partner. He glowers, swallowing a gulp of his coffee. The taste is acrid, nearly burnt. Things are still...easy between them. He is more comfortable standing here with Ursa in absolute silence then he is with anyone else in the world.

He’s speaking before he can stop himself, “Why him?” His wife hums, one brow arching. Ozai presses on, aware that he’s growling, pouting, “This cop? Your...peasant.” 

She laughs, setting her empty mug on the counter, “Peasant?” 

“I’m not wrong. He is inferior in every way. You deserve better.” 

“Ozai,” she’s still smiling. Ursa shifts, bringing one hand up. She hesitates only briefly before bringing it to rest over his heart, “Did you ever stop and think that after you, after us, average was exactly what I needed?” He’s left to stare at her. Ursa grabs her purse. She leans in and presses a kiss to his jaw, “I’ll see you next week.”   
_____

Her words linger long after she’s departed. 

Once, in the early days of their marriage, after the honeymoon had ended, she’d said something similar. She’d had too much wine, laughing wildly even if her eyes were shiny with tears. Being with him was exhausting. 

“You’re a fucking storm, you know that?” She’d giggled into her hand, unsteady as she tried to brace against the kitchen counter. “When you’re up there’s nothing more beautiful in the entire world. It’s just... everything else…” 

Ozai is a perfectionist. He is clever and charismatic. That drive has pushed him to excel at everything he sets his mind to; he is efficient and ruthless and unparalleled. And mercurial. His highs are very high. He remembers sweeping into their first home, a small one bedroom near his office, and catching his wife up for a kiss. He’d closed with his first client despite his Father’s doubts. He remembers making love to her and laughing, light. 

It’s the dark days he has a tendency to blot out. His depressions. His frustrations. His narrow mindedness and his tendencies to lash out. 

He remembers Ursa, her smile wobbling, stroking her fingers across his cheek, “You ever stop and think this should be easier?” He didn’t have an answer for her. 

Left to himself, to the silence, he still can’t find the words.   
______

Ursa has the courtesy to tell him she’s remarrying. 

“Your peasant boy?” 

She smiles at him. It’s soft and familiar. It’s everything he remembers from the highest points of their relationship. Something twinges in his chest. A nostalgia he would prefer to remain forgotten. Ursa nods, “Yes, Ozai. My peasant boy. He’s a good man. He’s good for the children…” 

“And you?” 

Her tongue flicks out over the seam of her lips. There’s a delicately choked quality to her words, “Yes. For me too.” 

He nods. A part of him wants to fight. To rail against her, to blame her; it’s her fault. She left him; she caused all of this. He never wanted to seperate. He isn’t able to find the necessary outrage. He just feels tired. Surprise registers across her face when he finally speaks. He reaches out, curling one hand over her hip, “I did not anticipate this.” 

Ursa nods. She looks away, only briefly. When she glances back at him he can see the tears in her eyes. She is strangely beautiful in such moments. Always brighter, the amber color of her eyes seeming to glow, “I know. I didn’t either.” She swallows, wrapping her arms around him, “I love you. You know that?” 

“Yes.”

He wants to kiss her. In that moment, that one moment, he thinks she would allow it. They are standing in the eye of one of his storms, a temporary reprieve before the emotions rage back to the surface. The air is thick with nostalgia. Their good and their bad experiences all bleeding into one perfect whole. He’s held her like this a thousand times over the past decade. 

Ozai is selfish. He recognizes this about himself. He is shallow and he is incomplete without this woman.

It is his one selfless act to push her away. His voice is flat, “Leave.”

She is hurt, “Ozai…” 

“Go, Ursa.” 

If she stays they will both regret it. On some level she must understand that. Ursa nods. She stares at the floor and searches for the right words. Ever diplomatic, his wife. But she cannot find them. She smiles, miserable, tight. She steps into him, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Alright. I...I’ll call you? Okay?” 

He nods. He doesn’t expect her to call and she doesn’t.   
______

Ursa marries her peasant boy. Zuko and Azula speak of the occasion only stiltedly, recognizing it is a sore topic. It’s a small ceremony at the courthouse. They say she looks beautiful. 

They will live a good life, mundane as it is. She is happy. The children are happy. 

And Ozai is left alone.


End file.
